


Dress Code

by cruisedirector



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Clothing Kink, Coming In Pants, Dress Up, Episode: s02e25 Resolutions, F/M, Floor Sex, Hair, Military Training, Military Uniforms, New Earth, Romance, Table Sex, Touching, Undressing, Uniform Fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1997-01-31
Updated: 1997-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:36:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruisedirector/pseuds/cruisedirector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fragment about uniforms set in an alternate universe where Janeway and Chakotay have the kind of relationship they should have had on New Earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dress Code

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lrbowen](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Lrbowen).



> This is set during the episode "Resolutions" sometime between Chakotay's angry warrior speech and the ship's return. It's Laura W's fault that I wrote it. Many thanks to Swlove for invaluable editorial assistance and to Cara Chapel for bearing with it through three drafts.

He had mostly been teasing, that afternoon when she whispered a vague demand in his ear and he murmured back, "I only take orders from women in uniform." Mostly. The relationship was so new that they were still a little shy about coming out and asking for what they really wanted. Captain and First Officer, even with the rank pips packed away. Though he worked on the shelter and she in the garden now, the specter of their former roles stood between them, just enough to create awkwardness. After a long moment while he gave her an embarrassed half-grin and she blushed, she had gone inside and dug her uniform out from the bottom of the carton where they'd left things from the ship they never expected to need again.

She slipped off her non-regulation underwear before pulling the outfit on. The uniform fit her differently without the Starfleet-issue bra and the raised boots --she had lost weight on New Earth, eating vegetarian and laboring physically. It felt different, too, as a costume. The fabric was designed to be unobtrusive, a shield of sorts. But now she noticed that it was light and soft, surprisingly enticing on her skin, the rigid Starfleet material transformed as it caressed her in places it had never before touched directly.

She had attached the pips, finished putting her hair up in the command style which he teasingly called "the bun of steel" now that she'd stopped wearing it, when he came in. At first she couldn't look at him looking at her. She'd seen echoes of his expression before, in uniform, on the ship, on the job, and refused to let herself think about what that meant. If she had, her body might have responded as indiscreetly as it was behaving now. She didn't trust even three layers of Starfleet-issue material to hide her nipples, and it would have been very uncomfortable to sit on duty in her current state, crossing and uncrossing her legs. And him--had he ever worked beside her as aroused as he obviously was currently? She heard her own audible breath.

Everything had been different on the ship. When the uniforms were symbols of their office, they had created a barrier between them, just like their ranks and positions--a protective neutral covering, rendering their bodies sexless, at least in principle. But in this place, she knew that her attire was giving him the same message that a piece of lingerie would have: _This is for you._

She tossed his own uniform at him, put her hands on her hips, and called up her best Bridge voice. "Get dressed, Commander."

He started, half amused, reacting to the tone of her voice, then began to comply. Right there in the center of the room, he peeled off what he was wearing, quickly but not rushing, taking his eyes from hers only long enough to find fasteners and openings when he pulled the turtleneck over his head. She wasn't certain whether he was deliberately making a show for her. Several times she was on the verge of cracking a joke to ease the tension, and stopped herself; she didn't want to turn this into a game, at least not yet. The tension was what made it matter. Once, these uniforms had defined who they had been together, what they could be together, representing a part of themselves--perhaps the most important part. Maybe they had to hash that out before they could leave those roles behind.

Still, she was not prepared for the jolt when he straightened in front of her, feet apart and hands behind his back. Apart from the aching desire on his face and the erection which the fabric of his jumpsuit couldn't hide, he might have been reporting for duty. "Captain," he said, the word an offer and a plea.

It wasn't that he wanted her to remain a starship captain, or that some erotic yearning tied his passion to her authority. But when he had first loved her, she was Voyager's commanding officer--his commanding officer. Even having had her as Kathryn, the woman who shared his exile, he still wanted Captain Kathryn Janeway, whom he thought would never love him. And he wanted her to love not just the man she was stranded with, but her first officer.

Her first officer. The people who gave her the uniform had sent her to arrest this man. Remembering the first holovid she had ever seen of him, her breath caught--at that time she had thought him alluring, the way he stood, the way he moved with strength and calm, power that radiated beyond his status as a renegade. But she had been watching a report on a criminal; the response was catalogued as an analysis of his charisma, and pushed aside. When she first met him, there had been many other things on her mind. His ship and hers stranded in the Delta Quadrant, their missing crewmembers, his anger at Paris and Tuvok--then his silent assent to her decision at the array, the merging of the crews, the adjustment to their predicament. That mixture of anger and relief at the knowledge that Seska had loved him, but power had been more important to the Cardassian than he had...she felt irrational pleasure at that knowledge, a sense of vindication. She had been so grateful for his support, his loyalty had been such a blessing, that she had not had time to think about her personal feelings for this man.

She remained locked within the uniform, obeying every silent code the Academy had taught them both, so as not to jeopardize his support. Flirting with him was dangerous--she must have realized that early on, or she wouldn't have done it so publicly, with all the safeguards that that provided, making it a performance rather than a connection. And touching him so often, in full view of everyone--it made the touching not mean anything. A secret thrill hidden even from herself. She could feel his uniformed shoulder beneath her fingers even now, and her body reacted involuntarily like it always did when he grinned at her, her hips swaying just a little, mouth crooking to the side as if an actual smile would reveal too much. All subtleties, never enough to draw attention, to alert the crew or him.

But he must have known. He had suspected, in her forced friendly banter and unrelenting search for a way out, that this planet wasn't all she was trying to escape from. The intensity had called for protection. Even after he told her everything, how he felt now and how he had felt for months before, she had held back. Her immediate acceptance would have been an admission: the captain of Voyager had been falling in love with her first officer, the Maquis leader, a man for whom there had never been a moment when she should have been thinking of him just as this, a man, this man.

She laughed, an ironic chuckle directed mostly at herself, but throaty and low and permissive. They had set their uniforms and pips and comm badges aside. Suddenly there was no reason not to admit everything, to him and to herself. His smile was warm, but a little uncertain. Crossing to him, she pulled his head down in an open, ravenous kiss. His hands went straight to her breasts, and she knew that her figure had never been invisible to him no matter what she'd been wearing. As if a uniform could protect her--the fabric rubbed against her nipples, soaked between her thighs, stretched taut against her rear, a catalyst.

If Tom Paris could see us now, she thought with reckless amusement. She straddled Chakotay's thigh, heat welling in her as her most sensitive parts pressed against the clothing and through it his body. What would Tom be taking bets on in this scenario--who would come first, who would come most, would they even connect in the flesh before they went off in the clothes? She wouldn't have bet on herself. Down on the floor with Chakotay under her, her back arched her forward against him until his erection pressed between them. She was moving on him purposefully, her lips parting. His mouth encountered hers as he lifted up, thrusting against her lap, her teeth taking his lower lip.

She thought of pulling the jumpsuit off, but that would have required separating, she couldn't do it. Not when she would have to see him, clad in the black and red which emphasized his solidity, her first officer staring at her as she undressed --she could never manage the fastenings with her hands shaking. She had stripped for him before, in the woods, at the tub, at the river--civilian clothes. If this last veneer was to go, it wouldn't be at her hand.

Her heart rate sped up as his groin rocked into her, he was gasping, mouth still half on hers. She pressed down, her weight off-balance, one leg around his back in an attempt to keep her leverage, her pelvis pushing firmly and deliberately onto his. Her arms over his shoulders and his hands on her hips, her rhythm too fast, refusing to slow down for him. He shifted to let her plant her knee on the floor, raising herself up with her other foot. The fabric rubbed hard, generating heat. How had she ever thought of the Starfleet uniforms as protection? They were burning right through them. She could hear her moans going staccato, warning him not to interfere. One of her hands pressed down on his shoulder to lift her, shouting what sounded like a fake laugh into his face, "Ha! Ha! Haaaaaaaa!" as he tried to hold still for her while she thrashed jerkily over him. Shuddering, feeling color flood her face, she came down heavily, her body in the captain's uniform, released, in his arms.

He did not give her time to rest there. His hands hooked into the V of her uniform and pulled, tearing the zipper halves apart and continuing until the seam was shredded all the way around and he could touch her wherever he wanted. Then he did the same to his own jumpsuit, until his penis burst out of confinement against her slick underside. Rolling them both over, he pushed her turtleneck as far up as it would go, anchored his hands to her breasts, and thrust inside her.

The material hissed as they slid together. He made love to her ferociously, staring into her face, mouthing her title; she responded in kind, his rank, not his name. The pips on the turtleneck bit into her throat. It occurred to her that she was uncomfortable, crushed against the floor, the breath knocked out of her with every thrust--the clothes confining, her hair pulling as the bun began to come loose. A laugh bubbled up in her, full of lust and passion and freedom from letting go of guilt. "It's crunch time," she managed to gasp.

He stopped, unbearably, for a moment, to tear the pips from her neck, hurling them across the floor. Farewell protocol. She focused on his face lit with devotion, framed by the clothes, her first officer in the accoutrements of duty. Her lover. It was not the uniform that made this man. And if that was so, neither was it the uniform defining her. He surged powerfully at her cry of gratitude, his eyes closing at last as he groaned and surrendered.

They left the uniforms on briefly afterwards, wet and torn as the jumpsuits were, while they cleaned up the floor. Touching, slipping their hands inside the long gashes. Her hair fell forward in disarray, and he gazed at her as if he had never seen anything more beautiful.

"I've wanted to make love with you for a long time, Captain," he said.

"I could tell," she replied. And made a suggestive remark about conduct unbecoming to officers, and he lifted her onto the table, pushing the sleeves from her shoulders, lifting away the turtleneck, wriggling the pants down her legs until she was naked. She pulled him to her by the front of his uniform, stark black and red against the muted colors of the shelter, their home. Without the markings of her rank, she showed him what she wanted, then abandoned herself to her first officer's creative input, until they both fell slack against the table, sated.

"Good work, Commander," she whispered, and he laughed until he was limp. Then she, too, began to cackle, and he drew her up and outside to the bathtub, where he pulled off the remains of his uniform. He did not put it back on later when they came inside.

She stuck the soiled clothes in a drawer, not wanting to erase what had been done to them. They never put the uniforms back on; they never needed to, with their roles defined by new terms. Chakotay had taken her rank pips and his own insignia and worked them into a carving, set among stones and sand to represent their new lives.

There was no way she could rewrite the past again, no way to take that back.

* * * *

They spent the hours after Tuvok's call avoiding one another's eyes while they packed. She flushed all over when she opened the bottom drawer of the storage cupboard, found the uniforms, and realized that they were going to have to replicate new ones before beaming back to the ship.

The suits lay casually wadded together, arms and legs in a tangle like sleeping lovers. Unraveling them slowly, trying not to think about how they had come to be there, she considered for a moment that they were probably repairable. In theory, anyway. Most of the rips were on seams--Starfleet material was tough, it didn't tear on the bias. She made motions with her hands trying iron out the wrinkles as best she could. It was hard to avoid the dried stains which made the fabric stiff in spots, but those would wash.

The uniforms' present condition was really an insignificant issue. Even if she did clean them, even if Tuvok failed to notice the resealed gash from the base of her zipper clear down to the crotch, wearing these clothes would leave her and Chakotay so aware of one another that it was unlikely they would be able to work at all--let alone together. She wasn't sure whether even new uniforms would solve that problem.

Chakotay found her sitting with the shredded uniforms in her lap. He didn't realize at first what she was holding, was merely concerned to find her sitting still in the midst of all the work to be done. Then recognition dawned. She watched him waver between a smile and something akin to grief. He took one of the uniforms out of her hands and held it up, inspecting.

"Think anyone'll notice?" he asked wryly.

"The rips, or the stains?"

"The teeth marks." He held out her turtleneck, sporting holes where he'd torn out her pips.

She stated flatly, "We're going to need new ones before we go back."

"I'm not sure I remember my replicator codes."

"That's all right, it would be a waste of energy on our little replicator. We'd have to input all the information manually. Tuvok can get the specs from the ship's stores and beam down suits for us."

"Or we could just beam up in civilian clothes, since we have to be in Sickbay for a few hours."

"No, we have to go back as officers. We never should have done this, Chakotay." He stiffed, and she added, "In uniform. That was crossing a line..."

"We weren't serving in Starfleet," he pointed out. "The uniforms were just clothes."

"If that was true, we wouldn't have needed to wear them at all."

"So it was a joke. I won't tell if you won't. Or we can report each other to Tuvok for inappropriate comportment." He grinned, but she remained still. "What are you going to tell him?"

"That we used the material from the old uniforms to help build our home here."

Smiling softly, Chakotay shook his head. "That's not even a lie." Their eyes held. With a small sigh, she looked away.

"Any suggestions what I should tell him about the pips?"

"That I threw them away in a fit of anti-Starfleet sentiment?"

In spite of herself, she began to laugh. "It just might do, Chakotay."

She went on with packing. She did not flinch when she told Tuvok they needed new uniforms, nor when she put hers on. Her only hesitation came at the last moment, preparing to beam up, when she turned back from the monkey to see Chakotay staring at her--again conforming to dress code, with the same aching desire on his face.

She almost said something then. She almost said the words which would have merged Kathryn and Captain and made her whole--words which would have irrevocably shredded the uniforms, the protocol, the tension which was between them again. Like a magic spell or a secret code, the words could have transformed them from captain and first officer into something outside Starfleet, something binding the two of them more tightly than duty or honor.

But the time wasn't right. She needed the uniform, the protocol, a shield, for awhile. She had to be Captain Janeway, and nobody else. She would change her stance subtly, strut a little more, make a show of strength for her officers. And then, when she could clearly delineate the captain, perhaps she could be Kathryn again, in or out of uniform, because it wouldn't matter.

"Energize," she said, and two people vanished from New Earth.


End file.
